


Whiskey Sour

by Severina



Category: Dark Harbor (1998)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks out of place in DeGregorio's, with his loose-fitting jeans and his mussed hair, yet his lax pose and relaxed manner fit the place in a way that David knows he does not, in his buttoned suit and neat tie and stiff spine.  It takes him a moment to realize that the dinner jacket draped over the boy's shoulders is one of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Sour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt 'whiskey'
> 
> * * *

David twirls the goblet slowly in his hand, only half-listening to the ebb and flow of the conversation. He concentrates on the golden liquid sloshing against the leaded crystal, and from the corner of his eye he sees Alexis toss back her hair, her mouth open wide as she laughs too loud and too long. His shoulders twitch as he senses the patrons at the closest tables eyeing his wife speculatively, no doubt wondering just how many bourbons she's put back and how many more she'll be able to imbibe before the maître'd arrives to suggest they take their business elsewhere. 

For a moment he considers throwing back his own drink, letting the whiskey burn in his gut and ordering another. But once he starts down that path his own contempt will be palpable, will burn through all the societal niceties and leave Alexis and their dinner guests scorched and smoldering in his wake. 

"… would be absolutely delightful," Alexis is saying. She turns to him, glassy eyes and her fingers on his suit sleeve, grasping and so needy. "Don't you think so, David?"

Davis rouses himself from the contemplation of his drink, manages a wan smile. "That would be fine, dear."

Her eyes narrow, and her taloned nails dig tightly into his arm. "You didn't hear a word we said, did you David?"

"I'm sorry," he admits. His raised eyes take in Marcus and Rebecca, both of them already more than half in the bag themselves, and he bites down on the scorn that rises like bile to his throat. "Dealing with a… work issue."

"You work too much," Alexis says with a final squeeze before she pats his arm. His arm tenses with the desire to throw her off, to grab the back of her head in his hand and smash her face into her half-eaten plate of pasta primavera, to drive his steak knife into her chest, to do anything to drive that haughty, self-righteous look from her face. He takes a breath instead, lifts his glass to his lips so that Alexis is forced to let her hand drift away from his arm rather than impede him.

His gaze drifts away from the table, the better to curb his vicious thoughts, and he nearly chokes on the whiskey when he sees the boy watching him.

He looks out of place in DeGregorio's, with his loose-fitting jeans and his mussed hair, yet his lax pose and relaxed manner fit the place in a way that David knows he does not, in his buttoned suit and neat tie and stiff spine. It takes him a moment to realize that the dinner jacket draped over the boy's shoulders is one of his own.

"David?"

He forces his eyes away, but not before the boy raises his own glass in a mocking toast.

"I was saying," Alexis says before shaking back her long hair again, "well… repeating, since you didn't pay attention the first time…"

"I told you," David does his best not to grit out, "my work is—"

"Yes, yes, your _work_ ," Alexis cuts in dismissively. "Well, Rebecca and Marcus have invited us to a lovely weekend away on their boat, and I can't imagine a better way to get you to stop brooding about contract law and indentured agreements, can you?"

What David can't imagine is two days trapped at sea with the insipid creatures currently at his table, and he racks his brain in an attempt to come up with a reasonable way out of his predicament. "The MacMillan suit," he finally says. "It's coming to trial soon, and—"

"Oh," Marcus interrupts, "surely someone else can handle that for a weekend."

"David, you really do look stressed," Alexis slurs loudly. "Some time away would do you a world of good."

David opens his mouth to protest, but is saved from blurting out exactly what he thinks of Alexis, her overblown buffoon of a friend and his shrewish little wife by the arrival of the waiter. He watches numbly, instead, while Alexis gestures flamboyantly and orders another round for the table, oblivious to the litter of goblets on the formerly pristine white tablecloth and the arched brow of their server. He estimates two more rounds before the maître-d comes to whisper in his ear. He clenches his own glass in a white-knuckled fist and dares to dart a glance at the boy.

The young man raises a brow and juts his chin toward the inner hallway before abandoning his own soda and salad and strolling casually out of the room.

Alexis is prattling on again, something about summering in Versailles, and David grits his teeth and grips his goblet and tries to ignore the boy's obvious request. It's too risky. He doesn't dare it. There is too much at stake.

He makes himself release his glass before it shatters in his hand. He blinks rapidly, refocuses on the conversation with an effort. 

"… and then David got his tie caught in the spokes," Alexis is saying with a giggle. Her arm waves languidly, and she doesn't notice when some of the scotch in her own glass dribbles onto her dress. "So there we were, holding up the entire line, while David flops about like a beached fish—"

David stands abruptly, his thighs colliding with the edge of the table. He mutters "Excuse me" as he leaves, but he's not even sure they notice he's gone.

The bathroom is at the end of the hall. He hesitates in the vestibule, smoothes his tie and straightens his shoulders. He simply needs a breather, that's all; a moment away from Alexis's blatant gibes, from Marcus's boozy laughter and Rebecca's mindless twittering. Just a moment to touch the boy, perhaps to kiss him, to ground himself in him before he sends him on his way. 

The door is cool on his sweaty palm as he pushes his way inside. He takes in the row of shining sinks and polished countertops, the gleaming row of urinals and beyond, the open doors to half a dozen stalls. Empty now, and he breathes a sigh of relief that no one is there to delay his brief reunion with his young man. The sigh turns into a gasp when the boy's hand whips out of nowhere to wrap around his carefully neat tie, to draw him forward and press their bodies together and join their mouths.

David shudders out a breath when they part. He meant to scold his young man, to remind him of the dangers of being seen together. But when he speaks, none of the harshness that he'd planned to use are evident in his tone. The boy undoes him, and he can only sweep trembling fingers through his too-long hair, press his palm to the boy's cheek. "You shouldn't be here," he says.

"I couldn't leave you with _them_ for the entire evening," the boy says. "If you didn't follow me in here I was going to resort to pulling the fire alarm to save you."

"And thievery?" he asks, removing his hand from the boy's face to let his fingers dance across the shoulders of his jacket. "You resort to that, too?"

His young man's answering smile is thoroughly unrepentant. "That too," he says. 

The hand still wrapped around his tie tugs convulsively, and David finds himself maneuvered into the room, the smooth granite of the counter at his back.

"Besides, David," the boy continues with a wicked grin, "you really do look stressed. Some time with your cock in my mouth would do you a world of good."

His hands grip the porcelain behind him when the boy drops to his knees, all of his good intentions fluttering away at the feel of the boy's fingers fumbling with his zipper, at the cool air on his cock when the boy draws him out. He vaguely recalls that he came into the bathroom only to kiss the boy, to take one moment to know that he truly has love even when he is surrounded by fools and imbeciles who mock him at every turn, to breathe in the scent of the boy's cheap shampoo and cigarette smoke and _remember_. And instead the boy gives him this, clever fingers wrapped around his shaft and warm mouth engulfing him. 

"The door," he manages to stutter out. "It's unlocked."

His cock slides decadently from between the boy's lips, and if he thought his young man looked wicked before now he looks truly licentious, shameless in his lust. The boy nuzzles his cheek against his dick, blinks up at him slowly. "I know," he says.

David can't help the whimper that escapes his lips, feels the boy's mouth curve into a smile against his overheated skin before that talented mouth and cunning tongue work him. He knows that he should be pushing him away, admonishing him for taking such chances, but he is helpless in their twined lust, unable to do more than stagger back against the onslaught. The bathroom is silent but for the contented noises the boy makes as he sucks, and David's spine stiffens when the boy scrapes his teeth delicately at his tender flesh before laving the sting with his tongue, breath hot against his skin before the boy takes a deep breath and swallows him fully. David holds himself steady, every nerve ending sizzling, his limbs tense and sore at the effort of not abandoning all inhibition and thrusting himself into his young man's willing mouth. His fingers ache where they grasp at the countertop, and he finally releases one hand to seek the boy's hair, to work his own fingers into those long strands, to tug and caress and pull until he shudders and comes, gasping and biting his lip to cover his moans.

The boy sits back on his heels on the tile and looks up at him guilelessly, and David lets out a shuddering sigh when his young man licks his lips.

Then he is reaching for the boy's shoulders, pulling him to his feet and kissing him, searching out his own taste in the boy's mouth until it is the boy who shakes and quivers. 

David turns away when they eventually pull apart, again grasping at the counter top. He can't think when his boy is near, loses all sense of reason, of propriety. It unnerves him and entices him equally, and for the first time he begins to consider what it would be like to have the young man with him always. To rise in the morning to that unkempt hair on the pillow beside him, to pull the boy into his unresisting embrace, to have his fill of him every single day without fail. There must be a way, if only he applies his considerable intellect to it. There must be a way to retain his status and his wealth and to also have his young man. 

David shakes his head, sets the thoughts aside. When he's finally able to lift his head and look at his reflection he finds himself thoroughly debauched, tie askew and shirt wrinkled, even his carefully smoothed hair standing up in places where he must have swiped a hand through it in his lust. He turns on the tap and wets his hand, prepares to put himself to rights.

"Feel better now?" the boy asks.

David meets his gaze in the mirror. Now that the passion is slaked, he finds he's more able to think clearly. "You take too many chances," he says sternly.

"And you don't take enough," the boy answers, pushing himself off the far wall. A cigarette has appeared from somewhere, and the boy twirls it between his dexterous fingers as he approaches, drapes his arms around his waist and leans in to press his chin to David's shoulder. His gaze flicks to their joint reflection, and his breath is warm against David's ear when he continues. "Make an excuse tomorrow," he says. "Spend the night with me."

It's a foolish suggestion, and a dangerous one. The boy knows that their encounters must be limited to hasty lunchtime meetings and the occasional mid-week evening when he escapes from the office early to spend a few hours wrapped around the boy before he heads home to Alexis with the excuse of a late-night business dinner on his lips. To risk a weekend encounter is absurd, insane. 

Then the boy sucks his earlobe in his mouth, releases it only to mouth at his throat. "Please," the boy says. "For me?"

And just like that, David is again undone. 

"Yes," he breathes out. 

He feels the boy's lips curl into another smile against his skin before he steps back and away, the unlit cigarette flipping into his mouth as retakes his casual pose against the wall, arms loose at his sides and ankles crossed. He feels the boy's eyes on him as he slicks back his hair, smoothes his shirt and straightens his tie. He imagines mornings spent with this ritual in their own home, his young man watching him armour himself for the day -- or better yet, calling in 'sick' to work and taking the boy on the counter, then spending the day in bed with nothing between them at all.

His eyes dart to the boy, and he swallows dryly when the young man smiles knowingly at him around the smoke. 

Tomorrow, David thinks. Tomorrow he will come up with a convincing lie for Alexis, and he will drive to the city, and he will have the boy on the tiny counter of his cramped little bathroom, and it will be glorious.

He nods to his reflection and gives a final twitch to his tie, does not look at the boy as he makes his way out of the bathroom and back through the crowded restaurant to rejoin his wife and their guests. Another round of glasses have joined their empty mates at the table, and he winces at the state of the tablecloth, at the overwhelming scent of stale whiskey that hangs in the air. From the corner of his eye he sees the maître-d beginning the slow walk to their table.

Alexis waves an airy hand at him when he retakes his seat, nearly topples over when she leans over to smear cold lips against his cheek.

David thinks longingly of the boy's embrace, but does not let himself look toward the other table. The boy will be gone now, at any rate. Back to his hovel, back to his one-room apartment with its leaking taps and its threadbare walls. He bristles to think how different their lives would be if only it were his young man sharing the clapboard house in the suburbs, the rambling home on the island, his bed, his life. 

He shudders when Alexis grasps at his arm, plasters on a wan smile for the maître-d even as he mind whirls, whirls. 

There must be a way.


End file.
